


Moving

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [30]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: One step at a time…





	

Title: Moving

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality, Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort 

Rating: NC-17

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

 

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie and Helen, betas par excellence! Any mistakes are mine.

 

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess  
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum’s the Word  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper?  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels  
One Man’s Junk  
May I Have This Dance?  
Four Green Fields  
Too Darned Hot  
Pomp and Circumstances  
Summertime Blues  
Blow the Man Down  
Post-Graduate Studies  
Crossing the Pond

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben sighed as he opened the door to the garage of the brownstone Friday evening. Spending the weekend with Quinn *should* be the high point of his week. Tonight, however, he was having a hard time chasing away the clouds.

 

Quinn looked up from his easy chair and smiled. “Cheers, love.”

 

Ben crossed the room and leaned in for a kiss, savoring the combination of pipe tobacco, Jameson’s Irish whiskey and herbal shampoo. The bearded lips were warm and he slid into the welcoming lap, curling his fingers into the silvering chestnut hair. As if sensing he needed a moment, Quinn simply held him, offering mute support. Bernini’s tail thumped softly against the hearth rug.

 

After a long silence, Quinn spoke. “Something troubling you, lad?”

 

The sound of the lightly accented voice made Ben’s world straighten a bit on its axis. “Kind of,” he admitted, nuzzling Quinn’s neck below the soft beard. The big man obligingly titled his head to allow him access. Any other time this might have been the prelude to some heavy foreplay, but right now Ben just needed to soak up his lover’s calm presence. Quinn intuitively read the signals and waited him out.

 

Finally, Ben raised his head and gazed into the deep-set blue eyes. “I got some news today,” he said slowly. “They’re selling my apartment building. Converting it into condos. “My unit’s being torn out and combined with the one next door.”

 

“I take it you’re not interested in purchasing it.”

 

Ben gave a short, bitter laugh. “As if. Would *you* buy a condo in that dump?”

 

“Not without an elevator, no,” Quinn conceded. “Although I have to admit, all that stair climbing’s kept you in fine trim.” A hand lightly stroked Ben’s inner thigh through his jeans. With a rueful chuckle, Ben kissed the tip of Quinn’s nose. 

 

“Pervert,” he joked weakly, then sucked in his breath as Quinn cupped his groin through the thick denim. Just the sight of that hand between his legs was enough to get his motor running. The man knew him so well.

 

Quinn’s thumb moved meditatively across the inseam, eyes never leaving Ben’s face. “So, what are your options?” 

 

“… Huh? Oh, you mean the apartment? Well… I guess I’m moving,” Ben said, struggling to refocus on the topic at hand. Not easy, given the distraction below. 

 

Quinn nodded. “May I be of assistance?” The hand moved to Ben’s waistband, unbuckling the belt, then undoing the button, seemingly of its own volition. Ben squirmed as the blunt fingers slowly unzipped his jeans, then reached inside. The man could have taught Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition a thing or two about torture. 

 

“I thought we were- unh… talking about- ahh… my apartment,” he whimpered, as Quinn carefully teased his hardening cock free, stroking it lightly with his fingertips. 

 

“Weren’t we?” Quinn murmured, the banked fires in his eyes and the growing pressure against Ben’s thigh the only indications he was anything more than politely interested. Cool as a cucumber, completely disassociated from his hand’s efforts below. The devil. 

 

“*Damn* it, Quinn… oh shit, d-don’t stop… I mean, quit tha- oh, *fuuuck*…” Ben keened as the tremors began to wrack his body. Tearing his eyes away from the smug blue gaze, he watched avidly as Quinn’s hand worked him with purpose, sending the blood surging into his groin. He’d have liked to return the gesture, but his position across Quinn’s legs made it virtually impossible. Besides, it was becoming hard to concentrate on anything but his own rapidly spiraling arousal. Desperately gripping the back of the armchair with his free hand, he rocked back and forth in time to Quinn’s movements, his world narrowed to the hand driving him relentlessly to a shuddering climax. 

 

Struggling to regain his breath and his wits, he barely registered Quinn cleaning him up, then wiping his hand free of Ben’s release with his handkerchief. The sight of the monogrammed Irish linen drew a weak chuckle from his lips.

 

“I’m not sure Reina would appreciate your using her gift that way.”

 

The corner of Quinn’s mouth quirked. “I’m really not sure it’s any of my baby sister’s business,” he said mildly. “Shall we agree to keep her in the dark?” He laid the soiled cloth on the end table, then solicitously tucked Ben back inside his briefs and tidied his clothing. “Now, I believe you were saying something about needing to find a place to live.”

 

Ben snickered. “Yeah, right before you turned my brain to mush.” He grinned at his unrepentant lover. “Sure you don’t want to continue this discussion upstairs?”

 

“If you wish.” Quinn shrugged and reached for his glass of whiskey. “You seem happy enough where you are.”

 

“*I* am, but I’m guessing *you’re* not,” Ben retorted. Pressure against Quinn’s groin awarded him a gasp and a restless shifting of hips on the leather seat. “Uh huh, thought so,” he said, patting the hot bulge in Quinn’s trousers. “Maybe you’d like to get out of those clothes and a bit more comfortable.” He smirked. “And I *know* you don’t want to leave that handkerchief lying there.”

 

“Mmm, you might have a point,” Quinn admitted, his voice a bit huskier than before. “Ah, well, if you insist,” he added, nudging Ben to his feet, then accepting the proffered hand. “After you, sir.”

 

The two men made their way out of the living room and up the stairs. Bernini yawned and resumed his nap.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben returned the washcloth (and the soiled handkerchief, which he set to soaking in the sink) to the bathroom, then climbed back into bed beside his drowsing lover. He lived for these moments, when they could just be together without the world looking disapprovingly over their shoulders. 

 

He loved Quinn’s spacious brownstone, with its unapologetic Old World ambience and comfortable eclectic style. Virtually every antique and fixture had its own colorful backstory. Most of all, he loved the big master bedroom suite. Admittedly, the shower stall was a bit cramped for two men. He’d miss the huge claw-foot tub in his apartment, where he had ritualistically bathed Quinn the night of his birthday. Maybe Quinn could be talked into finding one like it for the guest bathroom down the hall. Long midnight soaks with some candles and a bottle of wine… 

 

“Wha’s got ye smilin’ so, lad?” came the sleepy voice next to him. 

 

Quinn’s Northern Ireland brogue was especially strong during and after sex. It was a barometer of his emotions, reserved for those few permitted to get close to him. To the outside world, he was the consummate well-heeled university professor, his language crisp and precise, with only an occasional hint of his County Antrim roots. Even Ben had been startled the first few times he’d heard the lapse, almost as if another personality had invaded his lover’s body. Now it was a cozy nod to their deepening intimacy. 

 

“Just thinking,” Ben answered, moving to lie within the warm circle of Quinn’s arm, head cradled comfortably on the broad shoulder.

 

“Aye?” 

 

“Remembering the night you came over for your birthday,” Ben murmured. “Has the bathroom always just had that big shower stall?”

 

Quinn hummed affirmatively. “Never saw any point in changing it. Tubs generally aren’t big enough for me to stretch out in.”

 

“They can be nice for soaks. With musk oil,” he added, knowing Quinn’s preference for the woodsy smell.

 

“Y’mean, like that cast-iron monster in yer flat? If they’re remodelin’, might they be after sellin’ it?”

 

Ben raised his head. “I wasn’t suggesting. Just wondered why there wasn’t one here.”

 

“But ye’d like the havin’ of it, yeah? For when ye’re here?” 

 

The man was like a dog with a bone. “Maybe, but I didn’t mean-”

 

“No harm in the askin’ after it, is there?” Quinn persisted.

 

“If you want,” Ben said diffidently, lying back down and snuggling against the hand that moved to stroke his hair. He sighed contentedly, wishing they could stay like that for the rest of the weekend. Order some take-out, let Bernie out in the back yard once in a while, and the rest of the world could take care of itself. Nice…

 

“When do you have to be out?” Quinn asked, after a few moments of comfortable silence. 

 

Nearly asleep under the gentle ministrations, Ben struggled to respond. “Out? Oh, you mean- Um, thirty days. But the landlord said if I could make it sooner, he’d give me a break on the rent. I think they want to get started as soon as possible.”

 

“So you’ll be needin’ a place to stay fairly soon.” Stating the obvious.

 

“Guess so,” Ben mumbled, distracted by the way the hair curled just so around Quinn’s left nipple. Then he felt himself being gently moved to the pillow before Quinn rolled away, rummaging in the bedside table drawer. He withdrew a manila envelope and laid it on Ben’s lap above the blanket.

 

“What’s this?” Ben asked, sitting up and pulling the pillow behind him. The packet bore his name, in Quinn’s rolling burgundy script. Puzzled, he looked over at his lover for some clue, but Quinn just lay back, cradling his head on his arms.

 

Inside were three keys and several neatly folded change-of-address forms, already filled out with Ben’s apartment address and that of… the brownstone? He glanced over at Quinn, who seemed to have dozed off. “What *is* this?” Ben repeated slowly.

 

“One possible solution to your problem.” Quinn shrugged, not opening his eyes.

 

“*Here*?” Ben’s voice actually cracked. He’d fantasized about living with Quinn full time, but they’d never really discussed it. Even after their reunion following Ben’s resignation from the Academy, he’d retained his apartment, for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself. Quinn continued to “invite” him over each week with a handwritten note, even though Ben knew he was welcome to come and go as he wished. He’d carefully saved each and every one of the missives, delighting at how they had become progressively less formal, while retaining Quinn’s innate dignity and even the occasional witty double entendre. Just another way Quinn recognized and played to the romantic in him. 

 

“If ye’d like.” Quinn spoke into the awkward silence, a slight hesitation in his voice. “No pressure. It’s just an option.”

 

Ben spread the contents of the envelope over Quinn’s prone body. “Hmm, let’s think about this,” he mused aloud. “Of course, it *would* be closer to First Call headquarters. And having a place to park the car at night is a plus.” He eyed Quinn, who remained silent. “And there’d *finally* be a television, for the non-Luddites in the room.” A corner of Quinn’s mouth quirked. “So, this would be to the front door,” holding up the oversized brass key. Quinn nodded. “And this is to the garage?” Another nod. “What’s this one?” It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

 

“The car.” 

 

Ben gulped. “The *Jag*?”

 

“Why not?” Quinn answered unconcernedly. “You’ve driven it before.”

 

“Well, yeah, but the Jag’s your baby.” It sure would be mine, Ben thought to himself. His ’64 Mustang convertible was his pride and joy, but it would be a while before she was street-legal. No after-market parts or flimsy plastic substitutes for his lady. The silver Taurus was a short-term solution, born of necessity when he’d started working for First Call. And it was in Quinn’s name, anyway.

 

Quinn chuckled. “*That’s* what you’re worried about?”

 

No, but let’s go with that, Ben thought to himself. He wasn’t going to bring up Quinn’s having *proposed* in Ballymena only a few weeks earlier. Turning him down had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, before or since. 

“You really think we’re ready?” he asked seriously. “I mean, it’s a big step. Won’t the Board of Governors get pissed?”

 

“The Board can piss themselves as much as they like,” Quinn grumbled. “I’ll be damned if they’ll be after tellin’ me – or *you* – how to live our lives. This be none of the feckin’ gobshites’ business. They tried it before; they’d best hae been learnin’ their lesson the first time.” 

 

“Language, Professor,” Ben reproved, wagging a finger in Quinn’s face. “Any ‘fecking’ is going to be done right here, and the Board is *not* invited.”

 

“Too right,” Quinn fervently agreed. “The bleedin’ tosspots wouldna hae the first idea what to do with it if they were.” He gnawed on the offending digit until Ben jerked it away and began to tickle him. Their playful scuffles tossed Ben’s “moving kit” to the floor. 

 

Neither man noticed.

 

~*~*~*~

 

How did one thirty-something bachelor accumulate so much stuff, Ben wondered, as he closed the lid on another packing box and secured it with tape. He’d lived in his little third-floor walk-up for several years, but he’d never thought of himself as a packrat. 

 

Until now.

 

He straightened up and eased his aching back muscles, grimly regarding the bags piled up next to the door. 

 

Quinn exited the bedroom where he had been packing Ben’s clothes. “Come now, lad, it can’t be as bad as all that, surely,” he teased. 

 

Ben glared, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, he gestured to the boxes, then back at the empty desktop and bookshelves. “*You* try hauling those things down the steps and see what *your* back feels like. Then you can talk.”

 

“Considering what’s in there,” Quinn retorted, pointing toward the bedroom behind him, “I’d say we’re about equal. Shall I pack up your toiletries, too?”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Ben answered, wiping a grimy palm across his sweaty forehead. “Anything that’s open, just toss. Except the aftershave and cologne.”

 

“And the lube,” Quinn added.

 

Ben laughed. “Can’t leave *that* behind,” he agreed. He noticed a small cardboard box in Quinn’s hand. “What’ve you got there?”

 

“I found it on the shelf in your closet,” Quinn replied, handing it to him. “I’m assuming you don’t want to be throwing it out.” 

 

Ben opened the box. Inside were several vintage military medals and ribbons, and a faded photograph of a man in uniform. He looked up at Quinn. “These were my grandfather’s. Dad gave them to me years ago. I’d forgotten all about them.”

 

Quinn studied the picture. “You look like him.”

 

“I guess,” Ben agreed. “I never really noticed it before. That’s probably why Dad gave them to me.”

 

“We could have them shadow-boxed and put them on the wall above the fireplace,” Quinn suggested. “They’d go well with the claymore.” 

 

The Scottish broadsword was a cherished Donovan family heirloom. Ben was touched at the offer to share what amounted practically to a shrine. It drove home the reality that they were going to be openly *living* together, when until only a few months ago they’d been skulking in the shadows to prevent anyone from finding out about them. 

 

Quinn had flatly refused to let Ben pay rent, insisting his presence was all the compensation he needed or wanted. But Ben was determined to find some way of paying for *something*, if only the inevitable increase in electricity once his “techno-toys” (as Quinn called them) were installed. At a minimum, they’d finally have a television, for which Quinn had apparently never seen a need. Ben’s flat screen would fit nicely over the dresser in the master bedroom, and he could always camouflage the DVR and Blu-ray if Quinn objected to them being out in the open. He dreamed of a state-of-the-art home theatre system in the living room, but probably best to stick to baby steps for now.

 

“Take a load off.” Quinn headed for the kitchenette, while Ben sank down onto the futon with a grateful sigh. “Beer?”

 

Ben glanced at his watch. “Kinda early in the day,” he said wistfully.

 

Quinn handed him a cold one. “As me ole Da used to say, the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the world. Slàinte.” 

 

Leaning against the wall, Quinn surveyed the wreckage. “A grand morning’s work.” He took another swig of his beer. “Looks as if you’re disposing of as much as you’re bringing with you.” 

 

Ben shrugged. “There’s a lot of junk, stuff I haven’t used in years. No reason to fill up your place with it.” 

 

“*Our* place, and there’s plenty of room,” Quinn said firmly. “The third floor’s vacant, and the second bedroom’s mostly just boxes. Always meant to fix it up as a guest room, but never quite got around to it.”

 

“No, this is good for me. Makes me think about what’s important in my life, and what I don’t need to hold on to.” And not just physically, he added silently. I don’t have to be tied down to old memories and hurts anymore. I’ve got a new life, a good life with Quinn, and I want to make a clean break of it. He glanced down at the futon. “I think I’ll let this go,” he said. “It was second-hand to begin with. Besides, it doesn’t go with your- *our* color scheme.” 

 

Quinn finished his beer and tossed it into an open garbage bag. “Shouldn’t take more than another hour or so in the bedroom. But we’re going shopping when we’re done here. Your underclothes and socks are disgraceful.” 

 

“You’d probably rather I didn’t wear any,” Ben retorted, with a grin. 

 

Quinn’s blue eyes crinkled. “I wouldn’t mind, at that. But *you’d* likely be more comfortable with something under your jeans. And socks are generally a good thing to have in cold weather. So, shall we throw them out and start over?”

 

Getting rid of *everything* seemed a bit overkill, but Quinn had a point. Ben couldn’t remember when he’d last bought new underwear or socks. The briefs he had on were about the nicest he owned, and he’d only put those on that morning because chances were pretty good Quinn would have them off of him at some point. Assuming both of them survived the moving process. What was it his mother used to tell him? “Always wear clean underwear, in case you’re in an accident.” Ben chuckled. More likely a willing victim of spontaneous alpha-male horniness.

 

Maybe he could talk Quinn into some new things at the same time. Those white cotton boxers he favored were pretty utilitarian. Of course, considering what they had to cover up, briefs were problematic. Wonder if he’d consider the new boxer-brief style? Or maybe silk boxers for special occasions, like every other Tuesday afternoon. Quinn loved to haggle, and it might be fun to see just how far he’d be willing to go. 

 

“Toss ’em,” he said, shrugging. “Pitch anything you think isn’t up to snuff in there. Just leave the First Call stuff and a couple of changes, so I don’t get arrested for indecent exposure, okay?” 

 

Quinn studied him for a moment, then nodded and turned back to the bedroom. Interesting. Wonder what I’ll have left when he’s done? He hoped he hadn’t just talked himself into a new wardrobe. Just as he started for the bedroom to safeguard his favorites, there was a knock at the door.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Hello, darling!” Martha Kensington hugged him. “We were in town, and thought we’d take you to lunch.” She seemed to belatedly notice how sweaty and grimy her son was. “Did we interrupt something?”

 

“Hi, Mom, Dad,” Ben said, trying to brush the worst of the dust from his mother’s jacket. “Great to see you guys. Sorry for the mess. I’m, um, packing to move.” He stepped back, scooting an errant bag of trash out of the way. “Come on in, but careful where you step. It’s kind of a minefield in here right now.”

 

“Move?” his father asked, glancing around the war zone masquerading as a living room. “Where to, son?”

 

Oh, crap, thought Ben. “Well, they’re selling the building and-”

 

“And so Ben will be stopping over with me.” Quinn spoke calmly from the bedroom doorway, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. I’m Quinn Donovan.” He extended his hand to Ben’s father and then to his mother, not a hint of unease showing on his face.

 

“Sam Kensington. My wife, Martha,” Ben’s father answered. “Have we met, Mr. Donovan?”

 

“I don’t believe so, no,” Quinn replied. “But Ben speaks so often of his family, I feel as if I know you both. He and I worked together at the Academy, before he left to seek greener pastures. I’m with the biology department.”

 

“Really?” replied Martha Kensington. “Have you been at the school long, Mr. Donovan?”

 

“Longer than most would wish, ma’am,” Quinn answered humorously. “Twenty-six years and counting. Seems they can’t blast me out with dynamite.”

 

“He’s the department chairman, Mom,” Ben explained. “And one of the most popular professors on campus.”

 

“Come now, Ben,” Quinn reproved mildly. “There’s plenty would say you nay on that score, I’m sure.” He turned back to Sam and Martha. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I’m sure we can find a place for you to sit, can’t we?”

 

“Oh, yeah, sure! Sorry, guys,” Ben said, scrambling to move some boxes out of the way. “It’s a mess, but we’re nearly done, I think.”

 

“Are you sure Ben won’t be putting you out, Dr. Donovan?” Sam asked, perching on one of the boxes marked “BOOKS”, while Martha sat next to their son on the futon. “We can find him a new place.”

 

“Call me Quinn, please. My father, God rest his soul, was ‘Dr. Donovan’. And it’s no imposition at all,” Quinn replied. “Ben’s been doing a bit of private contracting work at my home, upgrading the wiring and such. He spends so much time there already, it’s really the only sensible solution. I’ve plenty of room. And it’s closer to his new headquarters. A win-win situation.”

 

“What an interesting name, Quinn,” said Martha curiously. “Is it short for something?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said politely. “My mother’s maiden name is Quinntrell. I’m originally from County Antrim, in the North of Ireland.”

 

“That explains the lovely accent,” Martha said, smiling. 

 

“You should hear him when he gets mad,” Ben said, laughing. “It gets so thick you can’t understand a word.”

 

Quinn raised a hand as if to cuff him on the back of the head, then smiled conspiratorially at Martha and lowered it again. “I’m quite sure your parents raised you to have more respect for your elders, infant,” he chided. “Mayhap you’re in need of some remedial training, hmm?”

 

Ben grinned unrepentantly. “It’s the truth, and you know it. He’s got a bit of a short fuse,” he added to his parents. “Thankfully, I’ve never had it turned on me.”

 

“Day’s not over, boyo,” Quinn joked, and everyone laughed.

 

Ben stood up. “Guys, I wish I’d known you were coming. We’re up to our eyeballs in this stuff, and we’re filthy. Maybe we’d better make lunch some other time. I’d really like to get this done today, so I can turn in my key and get my security deposit back.”

 

“Can we help, son?” his father asked. 

 

“Thanks, Dad, but I think we’ve got it under control,” Ben answered. “There’s not really any room for anyone else with all these boxes and stuff, and we’ve kind of apportioned out who’s doing what at this point. But we appreciate the offer, all the same.”

 

“Then why don’t we get you two some lunch and bring it back? Maybe take a few of the boxes downstairs for you?” Martha asked. 

 

“You’ll just get all dirty, Mom, thanks,” Ben replied. “But food would be great, if it’s not too much trouble. A hamburger and fries would taste pretty good about now.” His stomach growled on cue and he flushed, hoping his parents couldn’t smell the beer on his breath.

 

“No problem,” said Sam, helping his wife to her feet. “We’ll get extra, and you guys can munch as you pack. Then once you’re finished, give us a call on the cell and we’ll all go out to dinner, what do you say?” He turned to Quinn. “What’s good around your part of town?”

 

“Depends on what you’re looking for,” Quinn replied, “but I can probably recommend somewhere for you, or make you a reservation if you like.”

 

“Oh, please join us, Quinn,” Martha insisted. “You’ve been such a help to Ben already, offering to put him up at your home. You must come, please do.” 

 

Ben chewed his tongue at the easy way she wrapped Quinn around her little finger. Raised to respect all women and adoring of his own mother, he went down without a shot. Ben only hoped she’d be as receptive once she found out they’d not only be sharing a home, but a bed.

 

“You’re too kind, ma’am,” Quinn replied, with a warm smile. “But I’d be delighted to take the three of you to my favorite bistro this evening. It’s not fancy, but the food’s good, and there’s usually a nice jazzy band playing.” He glanced at his watch, then over at Ben. “Do you think we might be able to get this finished up by say, five? Six? We can grab showers and change clothes at the house. Here, let me write down the address for you.” He found a scrap piece of paper in the kitchen and wrote out directions from the apartment.

 

“It sounds perfect, Quinn, thank you,” Martha enthused. Sam nodded, studying the note Quinn gave him. “We’ll grab you some burgers and be back in a few minutes.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben sagged against the door after his parents left. “*Not* how I saw you meeting my folks for the first time.”

 

“I thought it went rather well,” Quinn said, pulling him into a reassuring hug. “They seem like lovely people. Very friendly. And they obviously think the world of you.”

 

“Yeah, they’re terrific,” Ben said, nuzzling into Quinn’s shirt and inhaling his unique scent. “But are you sure about having them come to the house tonight? I mean, there’s going to be boxes and stuff everywhere.”

 

“Not a problem,” Quinn assured him. “They’ll be expecting to see a bit of a mess. We can put most of your stuff in the garage, then unpack at our leisure. I’m not worried about it.” He kissed the top of Ben’s head and Ben leaned into him again.

 

“You were so damned smooth,” he murmured into Quinn’s chest, “the way you just came right out and told them I was moving in with you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. They didn’t even blink an eye.”

 

“Well, it *is* ‘the most natural thing in the world,’ isn’t it?” Quinn replied calmly. “Best to go with the truth wherever possible. You *are* working on the house. Your building *is* being sold. You *do* need a place to stay. I *have* the space. Simple.”

 

“Except you don’t have a furnished guest room,” Ben reminded him.

 

“Not yet, no,” Quinn agreed. “But we can put your furniture in there, and kill two birds with one stone.”

 

Ben leaned back and regarded his lover. “You had this all figured out ahead of time, didn’t you?”

 

“Of course,” Quinn said softly. “I’ve been schemin’ to get you there full-time since the first mornin’ ye woke up in me bed.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sam and Martha were back shortly with bags of burgers and fries and thick chocolate shakes. The food revitalized both men, giving them the energy to finish boxing up the last odds and ends. 

 

Quinn and Sam started carrying boxes down to the waiting U-Haul, while Ben did a final walk-through. His mother waited patiently in the living room.

 

“Quinn seems nice,” she remarked, as Ben returned from the bedroom.

 

“Yeah, he is,” Ben answered. “His students love him.” 

 

“I’m sure. How did you and he come to be such good friends?”

 

“Oh, well, he’s got this whole phobia about computers.” Ben grinned. “I practically lived in his lab. He’s great with plants and stuff, but when it comes to anything electrical, he’s a real klutz.” 

 

“He’s not married?”

 

“Nope. Why do you ask?”

 

“He just seems the type to have a wife and a bunch of kids crawling over him. Or maybe even grandchildren.” Martha smiled. “I sound like Beryl.” 

 

Ben groaned at the mention of his habitually matchmaking sister-in-law. “Don’t go trying to fix him up with anyone, Mom. Trust me, he’s had enough of women throwing themselves at him.” Xandra Criton had left a bad taste in both their mouths.

 

“That’s because he’s single, dear. If he had a wife and family, he’d probably not be as much of a target. What about you? Seeing anyone special?”

 

“The new job keeps me pretty busy. Doesn’t leave much time left over.” Ben wished he could just come clean and admit he and Quinn were in a relationship. Hell, Jenny Donovan had figured it out after only a couple of hours! But the words seemed to stick in this throat.

 

“That’s too bad,” his mother sympathized. “Try to make time for yourself, honey. All work and no play, remember?”

 

“Yes, Mom,” Ben answered obediently. “Hey, how’s Owen doing? I haven’t had much time to talk to him lately.”

 

“Beryl called a few days ago. Luke’s doing well in school this year.”

 

“That’s great. I need to catch up with them sometime.”

 

“You really should. You’re brothers, after all, and Luke’s your only nephew.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ll bet Beryl knows some sweet young thing that would just love to meet you.”

 

Ben groaned, just as Quinn and Sam walked in the door, chuckling at some shared joke. “Dad, help! she’s threatening me with *Beryl*!”

 

Sam grinned, while Quinn looked politely confused. “Beryl is our daughter-in-law, Quinn,” Sam explained. “She fancies herself quite the marriage broker, and poor Ben has been her main target for years.” He clapped Quinn on the shoulder. “She’d probably love to hook you up, too.”

 

Quinn shook his head. “Afraid I’m a hopeless cause, Sam.” He smiled at Martha. “I’m sure your daughter-in-law is a lovely lady, but she’d be wasting her time.”

 

Ben decided it was past time to get them off that particular tack. “I think that’s everything, Quinn. The bedroom and bath are completely cleared out. Thanks again for all your help.”

 

“My pleasure, Ben,” Quinn replied, with a small bow. “I look forward to more of our late-night conversations in front of the fireplace.” 

 

Ben laughed. “This guy has about a gazillion stories. He must have been a bard in a previous life.”

 

“He flatters me,” Quinn said easily. “But we Irish do love to natter on about just about anything, especially with such a receptive audience. We both enjoy movies and the theatre, and he’s almost convinced me to buy a television.”

 

Ben fell onto the futon, clutching at his chest. “You heard that? He said it in front of *witnesses*! A television! Holy crap. One giant step forward into the twenty-first century! Will miracles never cease?”

 

“Brat.” Quinn tossed a balled-up burger wrapper at Ben’s head.

 

~*~*~*~

 

With Sam’s and Martha’s help, the moving truck was soon loaded. They followed Ben and Quinn to the brownstone, where the two men showered and changed into clean clothes. Then Ben drove the four of them to the restaurant. His parents congratulated him for finally breaking down and getting himself some wheels. 

 

Quinn kept the dinner conversation lively, with anecdotes about school and his family back in Ballymena. “Ben tells me you’re a bit of an Irish history buff, Sam,” he remarked over dessert and tea.

 

Sam nodded. “I am, yes. Particularly the early 20th century.”

 

“Ah, I’m thinking the Rising, and the establishment of the Republic?”

 

“Right. Eamon De Valera, Michael Collins, the 1916 martyrs. They really set everything in motion, didn’t they?”

 

“They did,” Quinn agreed. My father brought me up on the period. I’ve a fair number of books, if you’d care to have a look.”

 

“Thank you,” Sam said enthusiastically. “That’s very generous of you.”

 

“Always glad to find a kindred spirit.”

 

Smooth, very smooth, Ben thought, sipping his tea. He caught Quinn’s eye and they shared a small, secret smile.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Back at the brownstone, Quinn invited their guests in for a nightcap. 

 

“You have a beautiful home, Quinn,” Martha commented. “That breakfront is stunning. Where did you get it?”

 

“It belonged to my mother’s family in England,” Quinn replied. “When her father passed on, I somehow ended up with it. Fits the space well, don’t you think?”

 

Martha agreed. She held up her glass to the light. “And this beautiful crystal. I’m guessing it’s either Waterford or Galway. See how it sparkles in the light.”

 

“You’ve a good eye,” Quinn said approvingly. “I’ve acquired a fair bit of both over the years. Hard not to, when you’re Irish,” he added, with self-deprecating humor.

 

“Now you’ve done it,” Sam said indulgently. “She *loves* Waterford. She’ll be green with envy for days.”

 

Quinn chuckled, as Martha blushed. “Just shows her excellent taste in crystal. And in husbands and sons.”

 

“Do you have brothers and sisters, Quinn?” Martha asked.

 

“Two sisters, both younger than meself,” Quinn replied. “I’m the only son.”

 

“Any children?” she pressed.

 

Ben frowned. “Mom,” he began, but Quinn held up a hand.

 

“No worries, Ben,” he said kindly. “No, ma’am, no children of my own. But my sisters have nearly repopulated the island between them. And there’s plenty of O’Donovans over there, so the name’s not likely to die out anytime soon.”

 

Martha blushed again. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean any offense…”

 

“None taken, dear lady, I assure you. I think they’ve finally accepted I’m not the marrying sort.” Quinn’s blue eyes crinkled, and Ben breathed a sigh of relief. For a minute, he’d thought they were going to have to come right out and say it, and he wasn’t ready to take that step quite yet.

 

“Do you get back home often, Quinn?” Sam asked, thumbing through a book Quinn had pulled from the bookshelves next to his big easy chair. 

 

“Not as often as my mother would like,” Quinn admitted. “But it’s a bit of a jaunt across the pond, and my work keeps me pretty busy. She comes to me more than I get over there.”

 

“That’s too bad,” Martha commiserated. “I’m sure they miss seeing you.”

 

“And I them. But we knew it would be that way when I came over, all those years ago.” He turned to Sam. “Take the book home with you, Sam. And anything else over there you see. Few people over here follow that period of history. I’m happy to find a fellow fanatic.”

 

Sam hesitated. “If you’re sure…” Quinn nodded. “Well, thank you, thank you very much. I’ll take good care of it.”

 

Ben smiled at the major step toward establishing good relations with the relatives. “Hey, Mom, Quinn grows his own vegetables. Wanna see?”

 

Martha faltered. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose…”

 

“Not at all,” Quinn said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to her. “Perhaps you’d allow me to put up a package to take home with you? My colleagues have been all but inundated, thanks to a healthy growing season. Shall we?”

 

Sam chuckled as they left the room. “Jack of all trades, isn’t he?” he said to his son. “Or would he prefer ‘Renaissance Man’?”

 

Ben grinned. “He’s a die-hard botanist. Loves to experiment. But his stews and spaghetti are to die for. Good rib-sticking stuff in cold weather.”

 

“Sounds like you’ve had a few meals over here,” his father commented.

 

“Yeah,” Ben agreed casually. “He usually feeds me when I’m here.”

 

“You sure you’re going to be okay, son? We can find you a new apartment-”

 

“It’s fine, Dad, really,” Ben assured him. “It’s a lot closer to First Call headquarters, and practically walking distance to the campus. And Quinn’s a great guy.”

 

“Okay,” Sam conceded. “It’s your decision. I just hope you’re not putting him out.”

 

“It’s all good, Dad. We’ll be fine.”

 

Quinn and Martha returned, Quinn holding a farm basket covered with a dishcloth. “Sam, you’ve never seen such beautiful vegetables!” his wife enthused. “Tomatoes and cabbage and corn and broccoli. And that’s just the *fresh* stuff! It’s so generous of you,” she added, with a warm smile to Quinn.

 

“My pleasure,” he replied, handing the basket to Sam. “There’s far more than Ben and I could possibly use up. Shame to let it go to waste.”

 

Sam rose to his feet, book and basket in hand. “It’s getting late, honey,” Sam said. “We’d better be getting home, and let these two get ready for bed. They have to go to work tomorrow.”

 

“Thanks for coming by, guys,” Ben said, hugging both his parents. “Dad, let me know what you think of the book. Who knows, maybe between the two of you, you’ll get *me* interested in Irish history.” 

 

“Hope springs eternal,” Quinn said, with a smile. 

 

“Quinn, it was such a pleasure meeting you,” Martha said, holding out her hand to him. “Dinner was lovely, and thank you again for giving our wayward son a roof over his head. And for the vegetables.”

 

Quinn raised her hand to his lips. “My honor. And, Sam, there’s plenty more reading material whenever you’re ready.”

 

“Thank you, Quinn,” Ben’s father replied. “I’d love to get together sometime and discuss your homeland. One day I hope to see it for myself.”

 

“It’s a bonny land, and no mistake,” Quinn agreed. “I’ll give you the personal three-shilling tour whenever you’re ready.” Everyone laughed.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben collapsed on the ottoman after his parents’ car was out of sight. “Wow…” he breathed.

 

“What’s the matter, love?” Quinn asked, seating himself in his easy chair and leaning forward to take Ben’s hands in his.

 

“I just felt like any minute they were going to come right out and ask whether we were sleeping together,” Ben said ruefully. “I mean, *your* mom figured it out in about thirty seconds flat! Or am I just paranoid?”

 

Quinn shook his head. “I found them charming.” He massaged Ben’s hands in his own. “But we really should tell them sooner rather than later, don’t you think? It’s not as if we’ve anything to be ashamed of.”

 

“Yeah,” Ben agreed, lacing his fingers with Quinn’s. “I just don’t quite know how to break it to them. ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, guess what? I’m gay, and I’m shacking up with Quinn Donovan!’”

 

Quinn chuckled. “Probably not the best way to present it. But we laid a bit of groundwork tonight. It’ll be fine.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Life settled into a comfortable routine. But Ben couldn’t stop thinking about how to tell his parents that he and Quinn were a couple. 

 

The Donovans had found out through a happy accident, when Jenny had come to visit back in the spring. She’d hardly batted an eye at the news that her only son was in love with a considerably *younger* man, who coincidentally was also non-Catholic. The rest of Quinn’s family had fallen in behind her, even gifting Ben with a County Antrim plaid cummerbund, indicative of his adoption into the clan. 

 

He’d gently refused Quinn’s offer to share and/or assume the responsibility of breaking the news. Realistically, he knew the biggest obstacle likely wouldn’t be his parents, but his brother, Owen, with whom intolerance was something of an understatement. Ben tended to steer clear whenever he started pontificating on the topic du jour. The news that his younger brother was in love with another man wasn’t likely to go over well.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The following Saturday afternoon, Ben sat at his parents’ kitchen table. “I wanted to talk to you guys,” he began. “About me and… Quinn.”

 

“Is everything all right?” his mother asked. “Are things not working out?”

 

“No, it’s totally fine, Mom,” Ben assured her. “In fact, it’s terrific. Convenient to the job, and that beautiful home, and…” Crap, he was practically babbling. “Sorry, I’m kind of nervous.” He gave them a weak smile. 

 

“What’s wrong, son?” Sam asked quietly. 

 

“Nothing’s *wrong*, exactly,” Ben replied. “I just…” Damn, why couldn’t he just *tell* them? He wasn’t ashamed of being in love with Quinn, for God’s sake! Wasn’t that why they had moved in together?

 

“Honey,” Martha said, “whatever’s bothering you, you can tell us.”

 

Ben nodded, then spoke slowly and deliberately. “Quinn and I have been seeing each other… socially… for almost a year now. When I gave up the apartment, I didn’t have any plans to find a new place. He asked me to move in with him.” 

 

There was a deafening silence. Then, “Are you saying you’re… gay?” Martha said faintly. “And that you and Quinn are…”

 

“Yeah,” Ben said softly. “I love Quinn. And he loves me.”

 

“How long have you known you were…” his father asked. He seemed to be having trouble saying the word. Understandable.

 

“I’ve kind of suspected I might be for a while now,” Ben said carefully. “But until I met Quinn, I wasn’t ready to face it.”

 

“And he… what? Asked you out on a date? Made a pass at you?” Sam didn’t sound angry or upset, more… puzzled. At least they hadn’t told him to get out. Yet.

 

“No, nothing like that. We knew each other from work.” It was a small white lie, but he didn’t want them thinking Quinn had just picked him up at the Halloween party. Even if he sort of did. “We hit it off, and wanted to see more of each other. Outside of school.”

 

“Did you know he was… like that?” 

 

Ben shook his head. “Matter of fact, neither did he. Bit of an eye-opener for both of us. But a *good* one.” He leaned forward. “I’m still *me*, guys. Nothing’s changed, except that I’m happier with Quinn than I’ve been in my whole adult life. *We’re* happy. And we’d like you to be happy for us.”

 

His mother was silent for a moment, then looked away. Ben’s heart sank. He’d hoped they would at least accept his choice. He gazed at his father, who was clearly struggling to come to terms with the bombshell.

 

“Quinn’s… older than you, right?” Sam finally asked.

 

“Seventeen years older,” Ben said matter-of-factly. “He’ll be fifty in the spring.” His mother bit her lip, and he added quickly, “It’s not a problem, Mom, really.”

 

“Yes, dear,” she said automatically. “He- he seems very nice.” She looked down at her hands, which trembled slightly. “Does… does Owen know?” 

 

Ben shook his head. “I wanted to tell you guys first. This isn’t a casual fling; we’re very much in love. Quinn is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He smiled. “He offered to come with me today, but I thought it would be better coming from just me at first.”

 

Sam sat quietly, brow furrowed in thought. Then, “So, is your building really being sold, or was that just a convenient excuse?” He gave Ben a small smile, clearly attempting to interject a bit of levity into the discussion.

 

“Yeah, Dad, they really *are* converting the building. And the brownstone *is* a lot closer to my job.” Ben shrugged. “But mostly, we just wanted to be together.”

 

Sam nodded. “Be careful about telling Owen,” he cautioned. “He can be pretty… conservative.” 

 

That’s the understatement of the millennium, Ben thought sourly. Owen tended to take a pretty narrow view of the world in general, and didn’t hesitate to inflict his opinions on others. Ben figured Beryl spent a lot of time apologizing for him behind his back. “I get it, Dad,” he said softly. “We’ll take it slow.”

 

His father nodded cautiously. Clearly, they needed some time to get used to the idea. 

 

His mother gave him a tremulous smile. “So, when I asked if you were seeing anyone special, you… *fibbed*.”

 

Ben grinned. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he said sheepishly. “Gonna send me to my room without any supper?”

 

“Oh, honey,” Martha sighed. “You know we love you, and want you to be happy.” She glanced at her husband, who took her hand and nodded. “Just be careful, please. You hear all kinds of awful things on the news about people being beaten up -- or worse -- because they’re… different.”

 

Ben tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “I know, Mom. And you’re right, there’s a lot of that out there. But our eyes are open, and we’re not making any big announcement to the world. We just want to be together. And it’s nobody’s business, except those with whom we choose to share it.” He leaned forward, covering both parents’ hands with his own. “Especially our families.”

 

“Do Quinn’s people know?” his father asked.

 

“His mother came for a visit back in the spring. And Quinn and I were in Ballymena in August, for his niece’s wedding. They kind of adopted me.” He pulled out his smartphone and showed them the picture of him and Quinn in their wedding finery. “Pretty cool, huh?”

 

His mother studied the picture. “Oh my, you look so handsome!” she said admiringly. “And Quinn looks like something right out of a movie, in that kilt.” 

 

“The cummerbund was a gift from the Donovans the morning of the wedding. All the men in the wedding party wore the County Antrim clan colors.”

 

“You were *in* Ireland?” his father asked, a trifle enviously.

 

Ben nodded, then reached into his computer bag and pulled out a couple of wrapped packages. “And these are for you.” 

 

Sam enthused over the Centenary memorial history of the 1916 Rising from the GPO in Dublin. Ben was sure he’d be holed up the rest of the day. Martha sighed happily over her silk scarf adorned with colorful Celtic symbols. “It’s beautiful, Ben, thank you. And thank Quinn, too.” His father nodded in agreement.

 

“Glad you like them,” Ben said. “Ireland is gorgeous, Dad, and the people are the friendliest you’ll find anywhere. And Quinn’s mother said you’re welcome to borrow his father’s books. He brought a cross-section back for you.”

 

“What’s his family like?” his mother asked.

 

“He has two younger sisters, one living brother-in-law, and scads of nieces and nephews. His mother was an English aristocrat, but she’s lived in Northern Ireland most of her life.” He pulled up the picture of the Donovan clan from the wedding. “That’s Jenny, in the pink gown. You’d love her, Mom. She’s a sweetheart. But her kids practically snap to attention when she speaks. We’ll have you guys over to the house the next time she comes to visit.”

 

Martha smiled bravely. “We’d love that, honey. She sounds very nice.”

 

“Thank Quinn for thinking of us,” his father added. 

 

Ben grinned. “Will do. And anytime you want to ‘cross the pond,’ we can guarantee you a place to stay, and probably a couple of personal tour guides. They’re as curious about you as you are about them.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

“They were pretty shaken up,” Ben told Quinn that evening, after dinner.

 

“Obviously, it was a bit of a surprise,” Quinn conceded. “But they love you, and want you to be happy. We’ll just give them a wee bit of time to adjust to the idea. I have a good feeling.” 

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Ben fiddled with one of the pillows on the sofa. “They were kinda worried about Owen, though.”

 

“I take it he’s not a fan of same-sex relationships.”

 

“Don’t really know,” Ben admitted, “but I’d be shocked if he was. He tends to judge first, and not bother to ask questions later.” 

 

Quinn nodded. “We’ll take it slowly.” He meditatively sipped his brandy. “It’s probably as much the age difference as anything else.”

 

“Owen’s and mine, or yours and mine?” Ben asked.

 

Quinn smiled. “Both, I suppose. He’s what, seven years older than you?” Ben nodded. “So I’m another ten years older than *him*. Interesting dichotomy.” He held out a hand and Ben allowed himself to be pulled into a loose embrace. “Dinna fash yerself over it.”

 

“Fish?” Ben joked weakly. “Am I the fisherman or the bait?”

 

“*Fash*, ye wee peon. It means don’t worry about it,” Quinn said reprovingly, tugging affectionately at Ben’s hair. 

 

They finished their brandy and headed upstairs, Bernini’s toenails clicking behind them. Apparently, he, too, sensed his surrogate human’s unease. Quinn voiced no objection when he stretched out on the floor next to Ben’s side of the bed. Ben felt oddly comforted by his presence.

 

Quinn spoke from the bathroom. “I can relate, to some extent, about the age issue. Gwen is several years younger than me, and Reina a few more after that. She was still in nappies when Mickleen was killed. Sometimes it can be hard to bridge the gap. But that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. And I’m sure Owen feels the same about you.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Ben said reluctantly. “But it’s not going to be an easy thing for him to accept. Just be prepared.”

 

Quinn returned to the bedroom, and placed his hands on Ben’s shoulders. “We’ll *handle* it,” he said firmly. “Together.” Blue eyes locked with green. “No running away with our tails between our legs. It’s perfectly legal, and no one else’s business but our own.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Ben said, with a small smile. “Lesson inhaled and assimilated, Professor.”

 

“Good.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Mid-week brought a pleasant surprise in the form of a phone call. “We wanted to have you and Quinn over for dinner Saturday night, if you’ve no other plans.”

 

“Sounds great, Mom, thanks,” Ben answered enthusiastically. “Can we bring anything? Some more vegetables from the garden, maybe?”

 

His mother laughed. “Goodness, no. We’re still trying to use up everything Quinn sent home with us last time. Just bring your appetites. Say, about six o’clock?”

 

“Looking forward to it. See you then.” He hung up the phone and did a jubilant little dance in the middle of the living room. Bernini joined him, barking happily. 

 

Quinn emerged from the study, where he’d been grading quizzes. “What’s the occasion?” he asked. “You look like you just got crowned King for a Day.”

 

“Even better,” Ben answered, waltzing him around the room. “Mom and Dad want us to come to dinner Saturday night. Now what do you think about that?”

 

Quinn beamed. “Why, that’s grand! What shall we bring with us?”

 

“I asked, and she said just us. Maybe a bottle of wine?”

 

“Red or white?”

 

Ben paused. “Shit. I didn’t even think to ask her what she was fixing. Is there one that goes with everything?”

 

Quinn smiled. “We’ll think of something.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

They arrived a little before six Saturday evening, armed with bottles of red and white wine, a bouquet of flowers for Martha, and a video documentary on the 1916 Rising narrated by Liam Neeson for Sam. 

 

Martha set out light hors d’oeuvres, including some of the vegetables Quinn had given her previously, with her special cream-cheese-and-garlic dip. Quinn tried it and immediately asked for the recipe. 

 

“It’s very simple, really, but I’ll be glad to write it down for you,” Martha replied. “May I get you something to drink? A beer, or maybe something stronger?”

 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Quinn replied politely. “A beer, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

 

“Coming up,” Martha said, moving back into the kitchen. She returned with a pilsner glass and an opened bottle of Guinness Black Lager. “There you are. And I wrote down the recipe for the dip; it’s quite simple, really.”

 

“You’re too kind.” Quinn carefully poured, raising the glass in a toast to the room at large before taking a long swallow. “Ah, that’s grand, thank you.”

 

“You’re very welcome,” Martha replied, with a pleased smile. “I’ll just check on dinner.”

 

Ben stood. “I’ll give you a hand.” 

 

In the kitchen, Ben reached for the six-pack of Guinness and set it in the refrigerator. His mother gasped. “Oh, no, Ben, your father told me the Irish drink it at room temperature.”

 

Ben chuckled. “He’s right, Mom, most do. But the one in your living room prefers it cold. Guess he’s lived in the States too long.”

 

“Oh, dear,” his mother fretted. “I- we didn’t know. Should I offer him something else instead?”

 

“Of course not,” Ben assured her. “It’s fine. I know he appreciated how you went out of your way to make him feel at home. Trust me, it’s not a problem.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I made the same mistake myself the first time.” 

 

“Well, if you’re sure he won’t mind…” she faltered. 

 

Ben was surprised at how nervous she seemed, how anxious to make a good impression. They’d gotten along so well the day they met at Ben’s apartment, and at dinner that night. But now that his parents knew he and Quinn were a romantic couple, they were practically walking on eggshells. 

 

“I’m absolutely sure,” he repeated, giving his mother a hug. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Does he have any… dietary restrictions?” his mother asked, with a worried frown in the general direction of the roast in the oven.

 

“Just an allergy to anchovies. He’s a total carnivore. Trust me, he’s going to think he’s died and gone to Heaven when he tastes your cooking.”

 

Martha blushed at her son’s blatant flattery. “Silly boy.” Then she sobered again. “We just want him to feel welcome.”

 

Ben hugged her again and kissed her cheek. “You already have, Mom.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Over the next few weeks, Sam and Martha seemed to gradually come to terms with their son being romantically involved with another man. As Quinn had predicted, the most important thing to them was Ben’s happiness. 

 

Sam happily devoured Joseph Donovan’s tomes on 19th and 20th century Ireland. He and Quinn dissected the 1916 Rising and its aftermath, until Sam was all but ready to book a seat on the next Aer Lingus flight. Quinn assured him that when he and Martha decided to make the trip, his Irish kin would be more than happy to accommodate them. 

 

Martha was impressed with Quinn’s Old World manners, and how he went out of his way to demonstrate the depth and sincerity of his feelings for her son. In response to her request for a copy of the picture of the two men in their Irish wedding regalia, Jenny overnighted a framed 8x10, with a handwritten note in which she expressed a hope that they could meet in person soon.

 

Owen Kensington remained the elephant in the room. The parents counseled caution: Owen could be quick to condemn anything -- or anyone -- that didn’t align with his stilted view of the universe. Ben knew in his gut that Owen wasn’t likely to be as receptive as their parents had been. When he cautiously voiced his concerns, his father suggested he and Martha break the news first, and then they could meet somewhere publicly to make introductions. Quinn was agreeable, but Ben privately dreaded embarrassing his lover if his only sibling decided to make a scene. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

In slacks and his Harris Tweed blazer, Quinn exuded an air of calm dignity. Ben was glad he’d worn the cashmere sweater and striped shirt with which Quinn had gifted him early in their relationship. Owen could think as he liked. *He* wouldn’t embarrass anyone tonight.

 

“Mr. and Mrs. Kensington, I believe.” Quinn spoke softly, extending his hand first to Owen, then to Beryl. “So pleased to meet you both. I’m Quinn Donovan.” His smile was sociable. “Martha, Sam, nice to see you again.” Ben’s parents nodded a friendly greeting in return. “I’m sorry to have kept everyone waiting. My faculty meeting ran a wee bit over.” 

 

“How do you do, Dr. Donovan,” Beryl replied. “We’ve been hearing a lot about you from Ben.”

 

“I’m sure anything he’s told you has been highly exaggerated in my favor,” Quinn replied, his smile widening to encompass the entire table. Ben was impressed. Beryl was visibly melting before the vaunted Irish charm. 

 

“Oh, surely not,” she gushed, eyes wide. “He tells us you’re the chairman of the Academy’s biology department. And at so young an age, too.”

 

Oh, my God, Ben groaned to himself. Could you be any more obvious, Beryl? What’s he going to think?

 

“You flatter me, ma’am,” Quinn replied modestly. “But I’ve been at the Academy for a number of years, only gradually moving into the chairman’s position. No one else wanted the job.” His blue eyes twinkled, and Beryl blushed before his gentle teasing.

 

Smooth, very smooth, Ben thought. Wonder how many times he’s used that line at Academy fundraisers? He glanced over at his brother, but Owen remained silent. 

 

“Please, call me Beryl,” his sister-in-law tittered. “And this is Owen.” 

 

Quinn nodded. “Thank you, Beryl,” he said gravely. “And I hope you will call me Quinn.” He turned to Owen. “I understand you’re with the State Agricultural Department. Then we have something in common. My background is principally in botany.” 

 

Owen nodded stiffly. “Senior extension agent.” He offered nothing further, and Ben held his breath, watching the two men silently take each other’s measure. He could sense his parents doing the same. Beryl appeared typically oblivious.

 

“Really?” Quinn gamely continued. “Perhaps we could get together sometime to discuss your work.” He actually managed to sound genuinely interested. Then again, anything to do with plants would naturally appeal to him.

 

“Sometime,” Owen said grudgingly, with little conviction. A man of few words at the best of times, but to Ben’s thinking he was bordering on downright rude. He tried to catch Beryl’s eye, but she was hanging on Quinn’s every word. And yet another conquest, Ben thought ruefully, not sure if that was a good thing or not. 

 

Sam cleared his throat. “I had a chance to delve into that biography of Eamon De Valera, Quinn. Fascinating stuff. We’ll have to get together and discuss it.”

 

Quinn seized the opening. “I’d like that, Sam. The Rising was an acrimonious chapter in our history, as you know, but it set the pattern for what came later. Much like your Battles of Lexington and Concord in the 1700’s.” Tacitly acknowledging the effort to keep things moving. A delicate dance of diplomacy. Ben mentally crossed his fingers. A quick glance over at his mother confirmed she was doing the same.

 

The waiter approached and coughed softly to get their attention. “May I take your orders, ladies and gentlemen?”

 

Sam and Martha ordered, while Quinn studied the menu. “Ben, you’ve eaten here before. What do you recommend?” His voice betrayed nothing more than polite interest, even as Ben felt a slight pressure against his foot from Quinn’s side of the table.

 

“The steaks are good,” Ben replied, knowing his lover’s taste for red meat. “Try the rib eye.” 

 

“Grand,” Quinn said happily. “Your largest rib eye, please, young man, *very* rare, with no seasoning, please. Baked potato and a green salad, with ranch dressing on the side. Now, Beryl, what will you have?” As if she were his date. Owen frowned behind his menu, and Ben prodded Quinn’s foot under the table, a silent warning. Don’t overdo it, love.

 

“Oh, my, that does sound good, doesn’t it,” she replied, blushing under Quinn’s warm regard. “Such a hearty appetite, Dr. Dono- I mean, Quinn. How do you manage to stay so fit and trim?”

 

Quinn chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Lots of stair climbing, and chasing errant students down the halls when they destroy my lab. Frequently, as Ben here can attest. He and I also play tennis as our schedules permit. And I enjoy walks with my dog.” He toasted her with his water glass before taking a sip.

 

Owen closed his menu and slapped it on the table. “Sirloin. Well-done. Potato. Water.” He didn’t even glance at the waiter.

 

Ben felt Quinn’s inner wince at the “well-done.” He was far too polite, of course, to comment at the table, but Ben knew his brother’s approval rating had just taken a hit. In Quinn’s eyes, a well-done steak was the equivalent of throwing a piece of shoe leather on the fire. Ben quickly gave his order to the waiter and searched for a new topic of conversation.

 

“How’s Luke?” he asked his brother. “Owen and Beryl have a son a little younger than Ani, Quinn. Is he still into karate and dinosaurs?” 

 

“Doing well in karate,” Owen said, marginally brightening as Beryl pulled out her cell phone. “Competing in his first tournament in a couple of weeks.”

 

“Great!” Ben enthused. “Let me know when it is, so I can be there to cheer him on.” 

 

“Impressive,” Quinn echoed, studying the screen. “He looks quite formidable. You must be very proud.” He carefully handed the phone to Ben, managing not to change any of the controls. 

 

“Who is Annie?” Beryl asked.

 

Quinn smiled. “It’s short for ‘Anthony,’ one of our ‘special accommodation’ students. Quite the prodigy. He’s just turned thirteen, but is already outdistancing most of his classmates. He even makes me feel stupid sometimes.” 

 

“Really!” exclaimed Beryl. “Martha, imagine being in college at only thirteen years old.” Ben’s mother smiled at her daughter-in-law. “You’re obviously quite proud of him.” 

 

“I do find myself falling a bit into the role of a surrogate parent, yes. He has a natural aptitude for the sciences, so I spend a good deal of time with him. And he’s handy when I have to call upon Ben and his team for yet another of my unfortunate mishaps. He speaks fluent ‘computerese,’ whereas I am wholly uneducated in its idiomatic intricacies. Saves poor Ben hours of trying to figure out exactly what went wrong each time.” 

 

Ben grinned. “Quinn’s completely out of his depth when it comes to anything computer-related. But it’s a wise man who can recognize his own deficiencies.” 

 

“Quite so,” Quinn agreed. “We can’t do without him. Hauled him back after he resigned, with an entire team to do the job *he* did singlehandedly for years. He’s almost convinced me that our home needs to be… how did you put it, Ben? ‘Dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century’? I shudder to think what ideas he has roiling in that brain of his.” 

 

“The man didn’t even own a *television*,” Ben teased, “much less a reasonably current computer. He’s a department chairman, but he might as well have been living under a rock, he’s so out of touch. If it’s not in a Petri dish or on a glass slide, it doesn’t exist. His students call him ‘Professor Fossil.’”

 

“Ben,” Owen said sternly, “don’t be disrespectful to your elders.” A transparent reminder that he was the youngest at the table. Ben flushed.

 

Quinn’s steely glance across the table spoke volumes, even as his foot nudged Ben’s under the table.

 

“Quinn, do you have family in the States?” Beryl spoke into the awkward silence.

 

“Afraid not,” Quinn replied. “A mother and two younger sisters in County Antrim, and several nieces and nephews. I’m the eccentric uncle who spoils them rotten when he comes to visit and then jumps on a plane back to the States.” 

“I’d think any woman would be lucky to find someone like you,” Beryl said disingenuously. 

“*Beryl*,” Owen said severely. “That’s enough.”

“Oh, dear, I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” she stammered, covering her mouth with her napkin, eyes wide and distressed. 

Quinn patted her hand. “Not at all.” He casually refilled her water glass, to give her a moment to compose herself. “But I’m afraid Ben and I are both off the market.”

 

Ben nodded firmly. “Sorry, Beryl.” Bionic yenta, he groaned silently, remembering more than one “possibility” she’d tried to steer his way over the years, with less than favorable results. 

 

The meals came, and were every bit as good as Ben had promised. Owen ate stolidly, contributing little to the conversation, but Ben could feel the waves of disapproval. Quinn focused on Beryl, no doubt trying to smooth over her earlier faux pas. Owen’s harsh reprimand had Ben almost feeling sorry for his sister-in-law. 

 

Sam barely beat Quinn to the leather folder with the checks. “My treat,” he said easily. “You can get the next one.” 

 

“Thank you, Sam. I’ll hold you to that,” Quinn said. Ben echoed the sentiment.

 

Owen loudly said nothing.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The other shoe dropped the next morning. 

 

Ben stared disbelievingly at his computer, sickened by the depths of his brother’s venom. The close-minded, self-righteous coward couldn’t even say it to his face. He’d sent an email.

 

Owen flatly denounced his brother’s same-sex relationship with “a rich, deviant European old enough to be your father.” Ben was no better than a “sugar baby,” exchanging sexual favors for Quinn’s largesse. Until and unless Ben came to his senses and broke off his “ill-considered affair,” he was banned from contact with himself, Beryl or Luke. His son was not to be “infected” with his uncle’s perversions. 

 

Ben read the email through several times. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have been surprised, but the cruel words cut deep. Memories of Garth’s attempted “date rape” in college flooded his mind, and he rushed to the bathroom to throw up. 

 

Clinging miserably to the toilet, he thanked God Quinn had a full schedule, and wouldn’t be home until evening. He must never know the depths of Owen’s condemnation. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben’s cell phone vibrated on his belt. It was his mother. She *never* called him at work. He hit the “talk” button. “Mom? Hi, what’s up?”

 

Martha’s voice was tremulous. “Hi, honey. I’m sorry to call you during the day, but…”

 

“It’s fine. What’s wrong?” Ben spoke quickly, as he walked out into the hallway so he could talk privately.

 

“Your- your father had an accident on the job site this morning. He… he’s in surgery.” Her voice shook; clearly she was fighting to hold it together.

 

Ben sank down onto a convenient bench. “What happened?” he asked. Growing up, his dad had always seemed impervious to harm. 

 

“He fell down a flight of stairs. The railings weren’t up yet. The foreman said he turned too quickly and missed the step. He- he did something to his back. Oh, Ben, what if he ends up *paralyzed*? Oh, God…” She broke down, sobbing into the phone.

 

“Shh, Mom, I’m here,” Ben assured her, throat tightening. “What hospital? I’ll be right over.”

 

There was a shuddering intake of breath on the other end. “He’s at General, but he won’t be out of surgery for hours yet. Owen’s on his way over. Beryl’s waiting for Luke to get home from school. Why don’t you wait and come after work? No point in all of us just sitting here…” 

 

She trailed off, and he heard her sniffle. He ached to be there, to hold, to comfort. But the last thing he wanted was to get into it with his brother. Mom didn’t need that right now. “Are you sure? I can be there in less than an hour.”

 

“Your dad would want you to stay at work. Owen’s off today, so he can come immediately. I’ll… I’ll call as soon as we know more.”

 

“I’ll be over this evening, Mom. But if anything changes before then, call me, okay? Love you.”

 

“Love you, too, honey.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben called Quinn. It felt good to lean on his solid strength. They agreed to go to the hospital together after Quinn’s last class that afternoon.

 

In typical take-charge fashion, Quinn assembled a “care package” of fresh vegetables from the garden, his latest experimental salad dressing, steaks, a bottle of single-malt scotch, two comically oversized sleep shirts and a variety of books and videos. They picked up Chinese take-out on the way. 

 

They found Martha in the surgical center waiting room. She was pale, but relatively calm. Sam was still in recovery; thankfully, the injury was not as serious as first thought. He would need to remain in the hospital for several days, but with rest and PT, he was expected to make a good recovery. His crews could continue to work the job site in his absence, and the foreman would provide daily progress updates until Sam was on his feet again. It could have been much worse. 

 

They found a quiet corner and dished up the take-out. Martha ate mechanically, probably not tasting anything, but at least it restored some color to her cheeks. Quinn charmed one of the nurses out of a hot plate from the employee lounge, and brewed soothing chamomile tea. 

 

“Thank you, both of you,” she said gratefully, between sips. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” She squeezed Ben’s hand, and smiled tiredly at Quinn. 

 

“Let us drive you home, Mom,” Ben urged. “Dad will probably sleep through the night. You can come back first thing in the morning.”

 

Martha shook her head. “They’ll be moving him to a room shortly, and I want to be with him.”

 

Quinn spoke softly. “I’ll see if I can’t find something better than a chair for you. At least a cot, so you can be comfortable.” He patted Martha’s shoulder and quietly left the room.

 

Martha smiled at Ben. “He’s a wonderful man, so thoughtful.”

 

Ben nodded, and poured more tea for them both. “Did Owen leave?” His brother had been conspicuously absent when they’d arrived.

 

“He was checking into renting a hospital bed and such, for when your dad comes home,” his mother replied.

 

Ben was relieved. Maybe they’d dodged a confrontational bullet. He hoped.

 

~*~*~*~

“What are *you* doing here?”

 

Quinn looked up from the nurses’ station, where he had been inquiring into a second bed in Sam’s room. “Good evening, Owen. Ben and I brought some supper for your mother. There’s plenty, if you’d care to join us,” he said politely.

 

“No, thank you,” Owen said stiffly, ignoring the hand Quinn held out to him. He spoke to the nurse seated behind the desk. “Sam Kensington, what room is he in?”

 

“They’ll be moving him from recovery soon, sir. Are you family?”

 

“His son,” Owen said shortly. Quinn diplomatically stepped back a pace. “And *all* contact goes through me. No one else.”

 

Bit of a slap in the face, Quinn thought to himself, but held his tongue. He caught the questioning glance from the nurse, and nodded agreement over Owen’s shoulder. This wasn’t the time or place to make waves.

 

Owen turned to face him. “You don’t need to be here,” he said shortly. “I’ve got things under control.”

 

Quinn inclined his head. “And quite capably, I’m sure. But Ben and I will be happy to assist in any-” 

 

He was talking to thin air. Owen had walked away.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben and Martha looked up as Owen strode into the waiting room. “What the hell is *he* doing here, Mom?” he demanded, earning a couple of curious looks from others in the room.

 

“We came to be with Mom while Dad’s in surgery, dummy,” Ben answered. “And we brought dinner.” He gestured to the opened take-out boxes. “Help yourself.”

 

“Not you,” Owen said shortly. “*Him*.”

 

“He *has* a name,” Ben said tightly. 

 

“Boys, please,” their mother implored. “Not here.”

 

Owen sat down opposite her. “I’ll stay tonight, Mom. Beryl will bring Luke over tomorrow, if Dad’s up to it. I’ll take it from here, Benny,” he said dismissively

 

“Bull,” Ben retorted. “No one’s ‘taking’ anything anywhere. He’s my father, too. And I’ll be here, whether you like it or not. Quinn, too.”

 

“Over my dead body!” Owen said loudly, and several people looked up in alarm. 

 

“*Owen*!” his mother admonished. “Calm down, before someone calls Security and has you both removed.”

 

Owen glared, but didn’t answer. Ben felt the resentment churning inside him. Stupid, blind… 

 

“Mrs. Kensington?” A nurse stood in the doorway, Quinn behind her. “Your husband is being moved to his room now.”

 

Martha rose gratefully. “Thank you, we’ll be right there.” She gave both her sons a warning glance. Quinn stepped aside to let them pass, nodding at Ben to go on ahead. He’d be nearby, if needed.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sam was pale and drawn, but managed a smile when his family joined him at his bedside. “Hey, guys,” he said weakly, holding out a hand. “Glad you could come help your mom.”

 

“How are you feeling, Dad?” Ben asked softly. “Giving you some good drugs, I bet,” he joked.

 

Sam nodded toward the morphine drip attached to his IV. “High-test,” he said, with a grimace. “Could probably run me over with a tank and I’d never feel it.”

 

“Enjoy it while you can,” Owen said, with a small smile. “You’re gonna need it.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” their father assured them. “Just didn’t look where I was going. Scared poor Kurt out of seven years’ growth. Honey, call him and let him know I’m okay, huh?” 

 

Martha nodded. “He’s already left half a dozen voice mails, wanting to know if you were still with us,” she said. 

 

“He can take over the job until I’m back on my feet. We shouldn’t get too far behind schedule.”

 

“Dad, you just concentrate on getting well,” Ben said firmly. “Kurt’s a good guy, and your team knows what they’re doing. They just let you think you’re in charge.”

 

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, but *I’m* not supposed to know that, remember? So we’ll keep their little secret, okay?” He leaned his head back into the pillows, eyelids drooping. Martha stroked his hand, and he murmured contentedly. 

 

A noise from the doorway caused them all to turn. An orderly rolled a cot into the room, already made up. A bag from the hospital gift shop sat on top of the blanket, and a colorful “Get Well Soon” balloon was tied to the foot. “Here you go, Mrs. Kensington. Can’t have you trying to catch forty winks in those chairs. They’re murder.”

 

“Oh, thank you,” Martha cried. “How kind.” She turned back to her husband, now clearly fast asleep. “He’s out, boys. Go on home. We’ll be fine. Owen, ask Beryl to bring me a nightgown and a change of clothes tomorrow morning, would you? Thanks.” Her eyes never left Sam’s face as she spoke.

 

“Sure, Mom,” Owen said. “C’mon, Benny.” 

 

“You go on. I’ll sit with Mom a little while,” Ben replied, not looking at his brother.

 

Owen shrugged and walked out, closing the door behind him.

 

“Go home, honey,” Martha said again. “I’ll be fine. And thank Quinn again for arranging for the cot. I’d not even thought about that. It was so nice of him.”

 

“Sure, Mom,” Ben said, giving her a hug. “Anything else you need tonight? Toiletries? I could run over to the house and get you a nightgown, if you like. Anything else?”

 

“You’ve both done so much already,” Martha said softly. “I can manage for one night.” She walked over to the cot and picked up the bag. “What’s this?” she asked curiously. She pulled out a sealed toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, a couple of Hershey bars, a paperback romance novel and a People magazine. A tissue-wrapped package held a cotton nightgown and a satin sleep mask. “Oh, how sweet,” she said. “Thank you, darling.”

 

Ben shook his head. “Quinn must have done it.” 

 

Martha’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s such a dear. Please thank him for me, sweetheart. He seems to have made himself rather scarce since…” She trailed off.

 

“Of course I will, Mom,” Ben assured her. “Get some rest, and we’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Call the cell if you need anything. Love you.”

 

“Love you, too, darling.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn looked up from the bench where he’d been reading a magazine, and watched Owen approach. Storm clouds brewing, he thought, and mentally prepared himself. “Is your father settled in all right?” he asked solicitously.

 

“Thanks for the cot,” Owen muttered ungraciously. “I’d have taken care of it.”

 

“I’m sure you would have, but you had a lot on your mind,” Quinn said diplomatically. “I was glad to be able to help.”

 

“Why are you still here?” Not quite rude, but close.

 

“Waiting on Ben.” Obviously. “We came together.” 

 

“Why can’t you leave him the hell alone?” Owen hissed. “He doesn’t need someone like you in his life.”

 

“Someone like me?” Quinn asked mildly. “Not following, sorry.”

 

Owen glared. “I’m not going to sit back and let my little brother get taken in by a lot of pretty words from some rich European pervert old enough to be his father.” 

 

Quinn frowned. “Excuse me, Owen, but-”

 

“And I don’t think I like you calling me ‘Owen’.”

 

“As you wish, *Mr. Kensington*,” Quinn said tightly. “But like it or not, Ben is not a child. He is thirty-three years old. And, as a grown man and a legal adult, he is entitled to make his own decisions, even if they do not coincide with what others might feel is best for him.” Quinn fought to keep his voice steady, barely resisting the urge to punch the pompous ass in the mouth. His Irish temper had a short fuse where Ben was concerned.

 

“And I suppose you think you know my brother better than me? Than his own flesh and blood?”

 

“Perhaps I do at that.” Quinn rose to his full 6’4” and stared down the shorter man. “But ‘knowing’ him is not the issue. Allowing him to make his own choices, and supporting those choices is much more significant. Ben is not you, Mr. Kensington. He is not your wife, or your son, or your parents. He is *Ben*. Moreover, he is the most important person in my life. And I will not allow anyone – not even ‘his own flesh and blood’ – to hurt him while I have breath in my body.”

 

The two men eyed one another for a long moment, neither willing to give an inch. Then Owen turned on his heel and strode down the hallway. 

 

Quinn sighed. “Yeah, *that* went well,” he muttered to himself. “Now what do I do?”

 

“Stay right there. Don’t move.” He turned, and Ben stepped into his arms and pulled his head down for a long kiss. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben talked to Teresa Rivera, and they agreed that he would continue to coordinate efforts with the rest of his team, as needed. Most of his initial set-up at the campus was already done; he was essentially fielding progress reports while First Call decided on his next assignment. 

 

He and Quinn visited Sam again the next day. His father was much more alert, and already fretting about time away from the job site. Kurt was keeping him up to date, including pictures, and the homeowner had expressed sympathies. Ben suspected they were secretly worried about a lawsuit. 

 

Quinn brought along one his father’s favorite books on Irish history. Often quoted as a reputable source, it had been out of print for years, and was nearly impossible to find. Sam was delighted, and said he looked forward to more of their discussions. Martha’s gracious thank-you note for the toiletries and the nightgown included with an open invitation to their home. He unscientifically kept it in his jacket pocket, a talisman against Owen’s open aversion.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben was spending more time commuting between the brownstone and the hospital than with his father. With Quinn’s full approbation, he began staying at his parents’ home, working off site as much as possible. He also helped his mother ready the house for his father’s return. Quinn discreetly absented himself from any one-on-one family discussions, remaining quietly in the background. It hurt to see him shunted aside that way, but Quinn maintained it was better this way for the time being. Sam’s recovery came before all.

 

After a week in the hospital, the doctors discharged Sam, but cautioned that he would still need complete bedrest for a while. He’d be in a rented hospital bed for a couple of weeks, and a therapist would come in each day to help him regain his strength. Martha insisted she could handle it, but neither of her sons felt comfortable with her doing everything. Twelve-year-old Luke stoutly claimed he was plenty big enough to help Grandpa get around. His parents and grandmother agreed he could visit, but best to let the adults do the heavy lifting for now. 

 

The night before Sam was to return home, Owen, Beryl, Ben and Martha sat in the living room. Luke was down the hall, watching TV in his grandparents’ bedroom. 

 

“I think that’s everything,” Martha said tiredly. “The refrigerator’s stocked, the bed’s set up, and the ambulance people will bring him home and get him settled. The hospital is sending refills of his medicines, and the drugstore can deliver anything else he needs.” She smiled at her sons and daughter-in-law. “Thanks, kids. You’ve all been wonderful. Quinn, too,” she added to Ben, with a grateful look.

 

Owen grimaced. “At least *he* hasn’t been around much.”

 

“Owen,” his mother chided, “Quinn has been the soul of kindness. I wish you’d give him a chance.”

 

“Sorry, Mom,” Owen said, clearly anything but. “But he’s dragging Ben down into the muck. And I won’t stand by and let my son – *your* grandson – be exposed to that kind of aberrant behavior. No telling what might happen if I left him in the same room with either of them.”

 

Ben’s voice shook with barely suppressed anger. “I don’t believe you, Owen,” he said, between clenched teeth. “Your attitude isn’t only prehistoric; it’s just plain *wrong*. Luke is my nephew, my own flesh and blood. Why the hell would you *ever* think, for even a moment, that I’d let anything happen to him? I don’t even *know* you anymore!” He drew a deep breath, then added tightly, “And I’m not sure I want to.”

 

Dismayed, his mother and sister-in-law watched as the two brothers glared at one another. Ben and Owen had never been close, even as children, but this might be the straw that forever severed any hope of a future relationship. 

 

Turning to his mother, Ben deliberately gentled his tone. “Mom, I’m going to a hotel. I think it’s better if I’m not here.” He didn’t bother to add that Quinn had already taken a room for the night, just in case an extra pair of hands was needed. He hugged Martha and Beryl, silently daring Owen to object. His mother’s eyes were full of tears, and he felt guilty for adding to her already overflowing plate. But damn it, Owen was not going to bully him, now or ever again. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

There was a knock on the hotel room door. Bernini, who had been snoozing next to his master’s bed, sat up and gave a warning bark. Puzzled, Quinn glanced at the bedside table clock. “A moment, please,” he called, soothing the agitated dog. Shrugging into his robe, he went to the door.

 

Ben stood in the hallway. “Can I come in?” he asked somberly.

 

“Of course.” Puzzled, Quinn stepped aside. “I thought you were staying at your parents’ place. Isn’t your father coming home tomorrow?” 

 

“Yeah. But I… well, I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d come over here, if that’s okay with you.” The green eyes slid away, and Quinn’s suspicions rose a few notches. He reached for Ben’s chin and gently tugged. 

 

“Now tell me the *real* reason,” he said softly, pulling an unresisting Ben into his arms. Sure enough, the lad’s arms wrapped around his waist and he burrowed in, clearly in need of comforting. “Has something happened?”

 

“No, Dad’s doing okay. He’s still coming home tomorrow. I… I just missed you,” Ben said, voice muffled in the folds of Quinn’s silk robe.

 

“Mm hmm,” Quinn said, stroking Ben’s back. “What’s going on?” He stepped backward, pulling Ben with him, and set him down on the bed’s edge. Bernini laid his head on Ben’s thigh, offering his own singular brand of comfort. Ben absently fondled the silky ears, and the dog nuzzled closer.

 

Ben sighed heavily. “I had to get out of there. I wanted to stay with Mom, but…” He glanced away, then resolutely turned back. “Owen was being a total shit, and I told him off. Then I left.”

 

Quinn exhaled. Owen Kensington was a royal pain in the ass. “What was it this time?”

 

“The usual. He was making all kinds of noise about us, and Mom was caught in the middle, and I just said to hell with it. I told her to put Luke in my old room, and I’d just stay here with you and Bernie. If… that’s okay with you.” He seemed suddenly uncertain, and Quinn hastened to reassure him.

 

“Certainly it’s all right, love. I just thought you’d want to be with your family. I didn’t want to intrude. Your mum’s got enough on her plate right now. Is she all right?”

 

“Yeah, she’s a lot tougher than people give her credit for. And Dad’s doing a lot better. He’ll be in a hospital bed for a while, then in PT, but he’s expected to make a full recovery.” Ben visibly brightened, and Quinn hugged him again.

 

“That’s wonderful, Ben, simply grand. We can go visit him once he’s up to it.” 

 

Ben nodded. “He’d like that.”

 

“And Mum’s sending over some more books and papers she thought he might enjoy while he’s recovering,” Quinn offered, pleased to be of use, even in such an insignificant way.

 

“Jenny’s aces,” Ben answered, leaning in for a kiss. Then he let out an enormous yawn. “Sorry, the day’s catching up with me. It’s not the company.” 

 

“Not a bit of it. It’s late, and you’re knackered. Into bed with you, that’s the ticket.” Quinn made a show of tucking him in and smoothing down the bedclothes, then moved around to the other side and slid in, pulling Ben into his arms. The lad was clearly exhausted, and in need of a strong dose of normality. 

 

That Quinn could provide.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben returned to the house early the next morning. Alone.

 

“Hello, sweetheart,” his mother greeted him. “Quinn isn’t with you?”

 

Not bloody likely, Ben thought. “He was tied up on campus.” He wouldn’t give Owen the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his groundless preconceptions had hurt both men. “But he said Jenny is sending some stuff she thought Dad might like. With this being the Centenary of the Rising, there’s tons of books and videos coming out all the time.”

 

“Oh, how kind of Mrs. Donovan,” his mother cried. “I know your father is looking forward to talking more with Quinn about his genealogy. You know he loves that sort of thing.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” Ben agreed politely, heart sinking. Quinn had enjoyed their talks, too. Damn Owen, anyway. “But Quinn’s going to be awfully busy with classes and department stuff. It may be a while before he can come by again.”

 

His mother took his arm, pulling him down the hall to the kitchen. “Have you had any breakfast, dear?” she asked solicitously. “Let me make you something.”

 

“I’m fine, Mom, really,” Ben assured her. “I grabbed something on the way over. Is there anything you need me to do before Dad gets here? I’m all yours for the day.”

 

“I think everything’s ready, thanks. He’s coming home by ambulance, and they’ll get him settled in his bed. Then we’ll take it from there.” His mother frowned, running down a mental checklist. Ben waited patiently. “No, I think we’re good.”

 

“I’ll make sure his laptop’s plugged in and ready to go, so he can putter on the ‘Net and not drive you too stir-crazy.” 

 

“Thank you,” his mother said fervently. “With any luck, he’ll keep himself occupied for most of the day. You’re an angel.”

 

“No worries,” Ben said, kissing her on the cheek.

 

The front door opened. “Mom? You home?”

 

Shit, Ben thought. “We’re in the kitchen, Owen,” he called out.

 

Footsteps sounded in the hall. “Hi, Mom,” Owen said. “When’s Dad due home?”

 

“About noon, dear,” their mother answered, pouring him a cup of coffee. 

 

“Good deal. I’ll be here all day.” 

 

Taking charge, as usual, Ben thought resentfully. Did you happen to notice that I’m here, too?

 

“You boys can spell each other. Once he’s settled in, I expect the biggest problem will be helping him to go to the bathroom and dress,” Martha said diplomatically. “I can manage in the evenings, if you can help out during the day.”

 

“Sure, Mom,” Ben said.

 

“I can handle it, kid,” Owen gruffly overrode him. “You don’t need to be here.” 

 

Ben stared at his brother. “Of course I do! He’s *my* father, too.”

 

“Boys,” their mother broke in wearily. “Let’s not start this again, please.”

 

Owen spoke stiffly. “I only meant that I have the vacation time, and Benny's probably tied up with his new job.”

 

“I’ve already arranged to work off-site. I want to be with Dad,” Ben said, struggling for a calm he was far from feeling. “And Quinn’s bringing over some-”

 

Owen erupted. “That man has *no* business here! I will not stand by while he corrupts my brother, and he sure as hell isn’t coming anywhere near *Luke*!”

 

“You pompous, self-righteous prick,” Ben said, through gritted teeth. “You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about! ‘Corrupt,’ hell! Quinn Donovan is one of the finest men I have ever known, and you’re nothing but an irrational *bigot*!” He was seething over the slur against his lover and, by inference, himself.

 

“Stop it, *both* of you, this instant!” His mother’s voice was a whip crack. “You’re acting like children!”

 

“Mom-” Owen spoke, but she cut him off with a Look.

 

“No, Owen, be quiet and listen. You, too, Ben. Whatever differences you may have between you is your business, but I will not see your father’s recovery complicated by the two of you spitting and clawing at each other like a pair of alley cats.” She took a deep breath. “Owen, it is your and Beryl’s decision as to how you bring Luke up. But this is *my* house, mine and your father’s, and *we* will decide who is welcome. And *everyone* who comes here will be treated with courtesy and respect, regardless of how much you may personally dislike them.” 

 

She reached for the coffee pot. “Your father is delighted to find someone who shares his love of genealogy and history. And he has already invited Quinn to come and visit. If that doesn’t sit well, then you’ll just have to schedule visits so you don’t have to see each other.” She turned to Ben. “Quinn is welcome here, and I hope he will find time in his busy schedule.” Owen sputtered indignantly, and she gave him another Look. “I realize you disagree, dear,” she said evenly. “That is your prerogative.”

 

“Mom, Quinn would never-”

 

“I know, Ben,” his mother replied. “He seems a gentleman of great personal integrity and honor. But you boys will just have to work out your differences somewhere else. Your father’s recovery is the only thing that matters.” Her tone brooked no argument, and both men reflexively stared at their shoes for a long moment, scolded as when they were kids.

 

Owen spoke first. “If that man is here, then neither Beryl, nor Luke nor I will be. Period. And I frankly don’t like the idea of him being around you and Dad.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Ben’s beyond help.” 

 

“How’s the view from the cheap seats, Owen?” Ben asked angrily. “Quinn’s a *hundred* times the man you’ll ever be! But he’ll respect your wishes, because that’s just the way he is. So, don’t worry, *brother*, you won’t have to see him. Or me. I’ll even draw up a schedule of visitation and email it to you, so you don’t have to be ‘exposed’ to us.”

 

“*Boys*!” Martha implored again. “This house is not going to be a battleground. And no one will be banned from coming here, unless your *father* says so.” She paused. “Owen, I realize you don’t like Quinn, but as Ben says, you’ll just have to make sure you’re not here at the same time. He *will* be welcomed here, whenever and as often as he likes.”

 

“Thanks, Mom,” Ben said softly, heart aching for the misery on her face.

 

Owen stiffened. “Well, I guess we know where everyone stands, don’t we? If you want to entertain degenerates in your home, that’s your choice. But *my* son won’t be subjected to that kind of unnatural behavior, from his uncle or from… that man.” He turned and strode back down the hall, slamming the front door behind him.

 

Martha sighed. “Oh, dear,” she moaned, sinking into a chair and burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and Ben wrapped his arms around her, crooning wordless comfort. Damn Owen’s narrow-mindedness. Why couldn’t he just accept their mother’s generous terms and leave the two of them to fight it out privately? She was already worried sick over their dad’s recovery; the last thing she needed was this kind of crap from her own sons. 

 

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured, stroking her back. “Quinn doesn’t want to make trouble. He only came to the hospital because he was worried about Dad. Owen’s an idiot. But I’m here as long as you need me, and Quinn will do whatever you and Dad want.”

 

“I know, sweetheart,” his mother said. Her face was wet with tears, but her smile was brave. “It was so nice of him to come to the hospital, and I do hope he’ll come visit again soon. This is your home.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Owen takes his role as the oldest very seriously, you know. It’s hard for him to think of you as a grown-up, even now. You’ll always be his ‘baby brother.’ It’s ingrained in him to want to protect you.”

 

“Some protection,” Ben muttered, then quickly added, “I know, Mom. But when he says those awful things about Quinn, he’s talking about me, too. If Quinn’s a ‘degenerate’ in his eyes, then so am I. And I can’t say it doesn’t hurt. But it’s his problem, not mine.”

 

“Oh, Ben,” his mother said sorrowfully. “That’s such an ugly word, and it doesn’t fit you – *or* Quinn – at all. Owen will come around, you’ll see. Beryl will work on him, and so will your father and I. Just try not to let it get to you. He- he means well.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Ben said tiredly. “But it’s the same crap we had to deal with from the school. We kept it on the down-low for months, and then had to promise on a stack of Bibles we’d not let it affect anything on campus, just to save our jobs. We wouldn’t have gone public at all, except for a big dust-up in the spring when one of Quinn’s seniors accused him of molesting her.” 

 

His mother’s shocked gasp was oddly comforting, and he continued, hoping to distract her from the immediate problem within the family. “Oh, yeah. See, she was caught cheating on her exams, and had to cover her you-know-what. She even accused *me* of changing her grades online! As if, right?” He grinned at the indignant flash in his mother’s eyes. Mother hen protecting her little ones. “Anyway, Quinn refused to certify her for graduation, even when her parents threatened to sue. The Dean *and* the Board of Governors leaned on him, but he wouldn’t back down. Talk about the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. It was fabulous.” 

 

“Goodness,” his mother said. “I had no idea you led such exciting lives. Is that kind of thing an occupational hazard for someone in Quinn’s profession? The Academy is supposed to be such a fine school, for only the most ‘gifted’ students. The tuition’s certainly high enough.”

 

“It is,” Ben agreed. “But those so-called ‘gifted’ students are also some of the most ‘entitled.’ And this girl was a real thorn in Quinn’s side, ever since she was a freshman. You’d think he’d want to get her out of there. But he’s as stubborn as Owen when he gets his back up, and he wasn’t about to let her get away with cheating. He said he hoped she’d thank him for it one day, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath.” 

 

“But what about you? You said she accused you, too?”

 

Ben shrugged. “Yeah, but that was just a smoke screen. I didn’t even have access to the grades. See, she botched a final in one of Quinn’s required courses for her major, big time. Then she tried to cover it up by accusing Quinn of flunking her because she wouldn’t have sex with him. But then she got caught hacking into the test sites, and the you-know-what hit the fan.” 

 

His mother smiled. “Well, I’m glad it all worked out. It’s too bad you ended up having to resign from the Academy, but your new job seems to be working out well for you.”

 

“Yeah, it was a blessing in disguise. Maybe I should write her a thank-you note.” He grinned. “Not.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

The ambulance arrived and Sam was wheeled into the house and made comfortable in the rented hospital bed. Ben made sure his computer was in easy reach and brought the books Sam asked for to the bedside table, along with a 48-oz water mug and bendable straw. Martha fixed lunch for the three of them, and they spent an hour or two just getting everything settled in, before Sam drifted off to sleep. Ben offered to stay, but his mother assured him that everything was under control, and suggested he go on home. She promised to call with any issues, and reiterated their invitation for him and Quinn to come any time.

 

“Don’t fret about Owen,” she said softly, as she walked him to the door. “I know he can be unfeeling at times, but he really does mean well. Try not to be too hard on him.”

 

Ben nodded, and kissed her cheek. “We’ll figure it out, Mom. Not to worry. Yell if you need anything.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Driving home, Ben couldn’t stop thinking about the earlier confrontation. The idea that Quinn would somehow “contaminate” Luke – or *any* kid -- was absurd. Ani Walker’s parents openly credited Quinn with their son’s collegiate successes. The boy had led the charge in defense of his mentor, risking not only alienation by the rest of the student body, but also potential expulsion himself. Fortunately, Dean Winters had stood with Quinn and shielded him from any adverse effects of his actions. In the end, it was Xandra -- not Ani -- who paid the price.

 

Ben flashed back to the smiling little girl at the Catholic orphanage the Christmas before, reaching to place the star on the Christmas tree from atop Quinn’s broad shoulders. How gently he’d held her, eyes bright as he’d set her back down again. They’d been back several times, occasionally chaperoning field trips to the zoo or local museums. In Ballymena, Father Mick had championed them, even though the Church disavowed same-sex relationships. Quinn’s family had embraced Ben as thoroughly as they had Molly’s new husband. Sam and Martha clearly accepted them as a couple.

 

So why was Owen being such an fucking idiot?

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn was slogging his way through a pile of sophomore term papers when he heard the brass doorknocker. Bernini followed him down the hall from his study. Pausing a moment to tuck in his shirt and run his fingers through his hair, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

 

“Good morning, Professor Donovan. I… I hope I’m not disturbing you.” 

 

“Of course not, Beryl,” Quinn answered automatically, stepping aside and motioning her to enter. “What an unexpected pleasure. Please come in.” 

 

Ben’s sister-in-law. *Owen’s* wife. *Alone*. What the hell? He bowed her into the living room and offered her the sofa. She sat, appearing more than a little ill-at-ease, which Quinn could well appreciate, under the circumstances. “May I offer you something to drink?”

 

“Oh, I don’t want to impose…” she said half-heartedly. She actually glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid someone might have seen her enter. Quinn’s protective instincts swelled. She was here, whatever the reason, and by all that was holy, she was safe in his home from any dangers, real or imagined.

 

“Not at all,” he assured her with Warm Smile Number Three, usually reserved for students legitimately pleading their cases for additional time to complete an assignment. “I was just about to fix myself a spot of tea. Would you care to accompany me to the kitchen?” He held out his hand and she shyly reached to take it, smiling a bit less nervously before his calm demeanor. 

 

“You’re very kind, Professor,” she murmured, even as he gestured for her to precede him down the hall. She looked as if she could use something decidedly alcoholic.

 

“My pleasure,” he replied, striving to allay her concerns about arriving unannounced. “And I’m only ‘Professor Donovan’ on campus.” He was pleased to see a tiny glint in her eyes, a slight tugging around her mouth that might just bloom into a smile with a little encouragement. Good. It frankly grated to hear her call him “Professor,” as if Owen was glaring disapprovingly from the corner. Damned if he was going to call her “Mrs. Kensington,” and put even more distance between them than the fights between Ben and his brother had already caused.

 

“I’m sorry Ben isn’t here. His job keeps him hopping. But I expect he’ll be home before much longer. Now, do you take lemon or milk with your tea?”

 

Beryl nodded absently, her gaze wandering around the comfortable kitchen and the adjacent dining room, with its burled walnut buffet, drop-leaf dining table and Chippendale ladder-back chairs beneath the heavy brass chandelier. Quinn could almost hear the mental cash register clinking away, then scolded himself for the uncharitable thought. Surely Beryl hadn’t come to catalog their net worth. And even if she had, he wasn’t about to apologize for anything she saw or heard in their home. 

 

After a pause, he politely repeated his question about the tea, and she blushed. “Oh, whatever’s easiest, Prof- um, Quinn. I don’t want to be a bother.”

 

“Not at all,” Quinn assured her. “Both are readily at hand. I myself take a wee bit of milk in my Darjeeling tea, and a sprinkle of nutmeg on top. May I?” 

 

“Oh, thank you, that sounds lovely,” she said quickly, and he carefully added a small amount of milk and held up the nutmeg shaker. After a slight hesitation, she nodded and he added a touch, then handed her the cup and saucer and gestured for her to precede him into the dining room. 

 

Beryl seemed genuinely surprised when Quinn held her chair for her. Was she so unaccustomed to even the most ordinary manners owed any lady? Joseph Donovan would have reamed his only son out if he had treated her – or any female -- with anything less than full courtesy. The thought vaguely irritated him, and he banished it for later contemplation. 

 

After allowing her time to cautiously sip her tea and acknowledging her understated pleasure in the taste, he set his own cup down and leaned slightly toward her, in as nonthreatening a manner as possible. “Now tell me, m’dear, to what do I owe this unexpected, but entirely welcome visit?”

 

“Oh,” Beryl stammered, and noisily set her cup down, rattling the saucer and nearly spilling the contents. Quinn tactfully looked away, thankful the Ulster linen tablecloth and napkins were at the cleaners. “Well, actually, Prof- *Quinn*,” she corrected herself hastily, and Quinn gave her an encouraging nod. “I wanted to apologize.”

 

Quinn carefully set his own cup down. “Beg pardon?”

 

“Yes,” she replied, nervously stroking the edge of her cup. “About the way Owen has- well, for everything. He’s not a bad man, Quinn, really, he just…” She seemed to be searching for words and he leaned back in his chair to give her some space, time to gather her thoughts. She sipped her tea, then continued, the words obviously coming straight from her heart. “Owen and I have been married for twelve years. I’ve known Ben since he was in college. He’s a wonderful man, but I don’t need to tell you that.” She smiled, the first *real* smile since she’d arrived, and Quinn inclined his head in agreement.

 

“Yes, he is, and it warms my heart that you hold him in such high regard. Ben’s told me much about you and Owen, and he talks often about Luke’s accomplishments. He’s a proud uncle.” In truth, Ben had pointedly refrained from mentioning his brother’s family since their last meeting. Did Beryl’s visit augur a possible reconciliation between the brothers? He sent a brief prayer heavenward and mentally crossed himself.

 

“I know.” Beryl’s eyes briefly teared, then she blinked and looked away. Quinn unobtrusively slid his handkerchief back into his pocket under the table. “And I came to tell him – and *you* – that Owen is wrong to keep him and Luke apart, and, well,” she seemed to be mentally girding up her nerve. “I won’t allow him to drive a wedge into our family.” The words tumbled out in a rush, as if a dam had suddenly been breached. “What you and Ben do together is no one else’s business but your own. But Ben is happier than I’ve seen him in years, and it’s because of you. When Owen cut him off, something… *died* in Ben’s eyes. I know you saw it, too. It- it broke my heart.” She paused for breath, and Quinn gestured to her cup. She smiled tremulously and sipped.

 

“Beryl,” Quinn said, his voice husky, “there are no words. I *have* seen Ben’s pain, and would move heaven and earth to remove it. He loves all of you.” She ducked her head again, and this time Quinn did hand her the handkerchief, which she used to carefully wipe her eyes. When she started to hand it back, he gently closed her fingers over it, in token of their new rapport. That she didn’t object gave him the first real hope of a reconciliation he’d had since that awful night. Too bad Ben wasn’t there to witness it in person.

 

“Quinn,” Beryl said unsteadily, clutching the handkerchief tightly in her hand, “I will not forbid Ben to see Luke. I- I don’t care if Owen doesn’t like it. He’s *my* son, too, and Ben is his uncle.” She gave him a watery smile as he opened his mouth to object, alarmed at her vehemence. “Yes, Owen is my husband, and it’s his choice. But I’ve had twelve years of putting up with his moods and his- his stupid prejudices, and I won’t let him victimize Ben, or Luke – or you – any longer. Poor Sam and Martha are caught in the middle. They love both of their sons, and it’s tearing them apart watching them square off against each other.” 

 

Her voice broke on a soft sob, and Quinn reached for her hand again, crooning soft comfort. When she gave him a puzzled look, he released his grip, thinking he’d offended, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” she asked curiously. “It was beautiful, but I don’t think it was English, was it?”

 

Quinn chuckled. “You’re probably right. I tend to slip into the Irish sometimes without thinking. I grew up in an English-and Irish-speaking home, and have a smattering of other languages. It’s a reflex; I be havin’ verra little control o’er it, dinna y’see?” He was pleased when she laughed at his deliberate lapse into his native brogue, and he rose with a smile to fetch more tea from the kitchen.

 

When he returned, he found Bernini sitting next to Beryl’s chair, shamelessly begging to be petted. He grabbed a couple of treats and tossed one to the dog as he came back into the room. Bernini scrambled for it, then looked up expectantly at his master. “Shyster,” Quinn mock-scolded, and Beryl smiled, holding out her hand for the other biscuit. Bernini promptly returned his full attention back to her. 

 

“He’s beautiful, Quinn. And so well mannered, like his owner.” She fondled the silky ears and handed him the cookie, which he carefully lipped from her fingers and then lay down at her feet to enjoy. “Have you had him long?”

 

“Since he was a pup,” Quinn confirmed. “He’s a bit spoiled, but until Ben came along, he was my only roommate.” He nudged the golden retriever with his foot and the dog grunted, but condescended to move a few inches. Watching Beryl admire him, Quinn was suddenly inspired. “Beryl, a friend of mine recently mated her female with Bernini here. The sire’s owner traditionally receives pick of the litter as stud fee. If you and Owen agree, Ben and I would be pleased to offer Luke a puppy.”

 

A delighted gasp told him he’d scored. “Oh, Quinn, how generous of you! Luke’s been begging for a dog for ages.” Then she faltered, clearly weighing her son’s pleasure against her husband’s state of mind. “I- I’d have to talk to Owen first, of course. Could… could I get back to you?” 

 

Quinn mentally kicked himself for having impulsively sprung it on her. But maybe this would be the ticket to restoring family harmony. Kids and dogs naturally went together. He’d certainly had enough pets – domestic and otherwise – growing up in Ballymena. His mother loved to tease about making him empty his pockets at bedtime and discovering all manner of insects, frogs and who knew what else in his overalls. For a high-born, gently reared English noblewoman, she had a tougher stomach and stronger nerves than ever given credit for. At least it’d never been a snake.

 

“Of course you may,” he assured her. “The thought just hit me, and we’d never move forward without your and Owen’s consent.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “But if a certain youngster and his lovely mother were to wander by the neighborhood on a sunny afternoon and just happened to run into a playful and gregarious golden retriever mightily fond of treats and energetic little boys, well, who knows how things might progress from there?”

 

“You’re a devil, Quinn Donovan, playing to a mother’s desires for her son.” Beryl actually giggled, a charming sound to Quinn’s ears. She reached down to scritch behind Bernini’s ears and he nuzzled her hand. “Oh, you are a sweetheart, aren’t you,” she crooned, and his tail wagged in complete agreement. “And so beautiful, too. Does he take a lot of grooming?”

 

“Every other month or so,” Quinn replied. “He stays indoors most of the time, unless he’s out with me on his leash, but he’s been known to get into something unsavory a time or two, when I wasn’t looking. He’s quite friendly, as you can see, and the breed is very child-compatible, as a rule. I’m sure he and Luke would get along famously.” Then he frowned, and leaned over, looking Beryl in the eye. “But I do *not* want to put you in Dutch with Owen about this, understand? If you feel comfortable bringing Luke by to see his Uncle Ben and to play with Bernini here, then you’re both welcome anytime. I can make myself scarce.” 

 

Beryl opened her mouth to protest, but Quinn held up his hand. “I’m only offering, dear lady, out of a sense of trying to keep peace in the family. Ben can tell you almost as much about this bonny lad as I can. If it makes it even a wee bit more palatable for Owen to know that I am not ‘exposing’ his son to anything, then it’s a small enough price to pay, isn’t it?”

 

“Oh, Quinn, please understand-” Beryl cried.

 

“I do,” Quinn said firmly. “And I mean to say, it is not taken wrongly. My principal concern is seeing that Ben is accepted back into his family’s graces – *all* of them – and we’ll take that one step at a time, if necessary. You and I can work together to bring that about, can’t we?” He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m not walking away, Beryl. Ben and I are together, and we will stay together, but if you and I can allay fears and untangle any baseless prejudices, it could go a long way toward restoring family harmony. And believe me, if you saw pictures of this one as a pup, you’d be as gooey-eyed as I was when I first laid eyes on him. Nothing’s more irresistible than a warm puppy.” He gave a sharp nod as if to say the subject was closed, and Beryl smiled.

 

“You’re an amazingly complicated man, Quinn Donovan,” she said softly. “No wonder Ben loves you so. He’s been waiting for you his whole life.”

 

Quinn felt his throat close. Who could have predicted? He patted her hand, not trusting himself to speak, and surprisingly, she grasped his and squeezed it, sealing a bond of friendship and camaraderie between them.

 

“I really have to get going,” she said regretfully, rising from her seat. Quinn and Bernini rose with her – gentlemen both – and escorted her to the door. “This has been such a nice visit, and thank you for the tea, and the talk and… everything.”

 

“It was my pleasure, Beryl,” Quinn said warmly, as he opened the door for her. “You’re a lovely lady, and thank *you* for coming. I know it wasn’t an easy thing to do, and it will remain our secret if you like, until and unless you say otherwise.”

 

Beryl blushed. Quinn had the feeling she wasn’t used to receiving compliments, and mentally berated Owen for not paying more attention to this remarkable woman who was struggling so hard to keep her little family together in a crisis. 

 

He watched her move down the sidewalk to her car and waved goodbye. Married to Owen for twelve years and only the one child, coincidentally about twelve years old. Away from her overbearing husband, she was charmingly open and talkative, and clearly adored her son. She had a strong empathy for Ben, and seemed willing to live and let live, despite Owen’s disparaging attitude. Seeds of rebellion might just be sprouting in the younger Kensington household. And if he’d had any small part in poking that not-altogether-sleeping dragon, then he’d happily strap on his great-grandfather’s claymore and wade into battle alongside their new ally. 

 

Kneeling on the hardwood floor, Quinn beckoned to Bernini, who slipped cozily into his master’s embrace, tail thumping happily against his leg. “What do ye think, m’lad? Would ye be after sendin’ yer firstborn to a wee lad fairly itchin’ fer a new mate under the Christmas tree?” 

 

Bernini licked his face above his beard, then ran into the living room, returning with his ball in his mouth. Grinning, Quinn hauled himself to his feet and followed the dog to the garden for a game of catch. 

 

What a grand day it was turning out to be, after all.

 

~the end~


End file.
